Mother Knew Best

by Dorothy Scannell

  One night a man ordered a baked apple with syrup sauce and when Chas arrived at the table, the plate was on his tray, but there was no baked apple. Just like Charlie Chaplin he searched everywhere, but had to go back for a replacement. He would have had to anyway because he could hardly dust off a syrupy baked apple. The man finished his meal, I watched Chas help him on with his overcoat and as the man put his hand in his overcoat pocket, I knew where the baked apple was. The man was led off expostulating to be de-syruped, Chas was nearly in tears, and I pretended I had dropped my gloves under the table. Poor Chas, he also had to pay for the baked apple. It had slid into the open pocket as Chas made his great swing round from the service door.

  Another evening a girl was sitting at a table with a young man. They were engrossed in each other, obviously in love, and I watched them enviously. She was wearing a beautifully embroidered muslin blouse, transparent-looking where there was no embroidery. It was gorgeous. Chas came in with their salad and as he bent down over the table the bottle of oil tipped up, and down this girl’s blouse went the oil. She burst into tears, she could have done nothing worse for a man like mine, he was nearly in tears too; he started to wipe her bosom with his white cloth and then leapt back startled at his near immorality. She too was led off in tears.

  One night a very red and tottery man sat at my table and ordered whitebait. I thought he was having whiting and when this multitude of tiny grey fish with large closed eyes was served up he must have seen my surprised expression for he began to toss them in the air with his fork laughing and saying, ‘I love them little fishes, them little fishes, my dear, I love.’ He was led away by Chas and the supervisor. They apologised to me and said they wouldn’t have served him if they had known he was inebriated, but I think it was my expression which started the man off on his childish pranks.

  Well, someone had to lay the foundation of the family fortunes so I obtained a better paid job nearer home. It was with a large food firm and considered to be a plum job. Such jobs were never advertised, going to families who ‘spoke’ for each other, but I happened to write in at a time when no relation of the office staff was available. The factory foreman took on the staff. Since no office staff had been taken on for years and years, and there was no interviewer specially for them, whereas factory staff were large in number, I was interviewed by this foreman. He was very sensitive about his baldness and lived permanently in a large grey cap. He wore a white overall and we sat in a grimy little waiting-room for the interview. Progressively, it had been decided that future staff should undergo an intelligence test, an innovation, and this foreman was to test me. The trouble was he didn’t understand the test himself, and the cards which should have gone in order were so jumbled up by him that the questions made no sense, in any case I doubt if he was bright enough to recognise the answers. In the end, for he didn’t seem to know whether I was employing him or he me—he was asking me the answers to the questions—I suggested I sort the cards out for him. He was so relieved when I told him which questions to ask me and in which order, that he happily told me I was employed if I passed my medical. I passed the medical, but when I finally started work I felt the medical was to see whether I could survive such conditions.

  It was like working in a hot damp cellar. The electric light was on all day, and outside the area window hung a dirty-looking glass reflector. I was being paid an enormous wage but didn’t work at all until about three o’clock when the invoices came in and these took me a couple of hours. The senior shorthand typist did a couple of letters each day, or so it seemed to me. In the main office men appeared to be working but the girl in that office spent her time in close, whispered conversation with one of the married clerks. The engineer brought me orchids from his greenhouse, and the little orchid in the tumbler on my desk kept me going. We had lovely lunches in the director’s dining-room, and only the fact that I was to be married kept me there. I was bored. They didn’t need me to do a few simple invoices. I was getting money under false pretences and so, in my opinion, were the rest of the office staff, though there were a few male exceptions. I thought the owners and directors were on the millionaire side and I felt the waste of money and time acutely and wondered if what they sold could not have been made cheaper for the populace.

  Until the Friday of my wedding, I had not purchased my bridal outfit. I decided I would not be married in white, with bridesmaids, the money would be better spent on our home. Chas and I had nearly broken up at the time of flat-hunting. He was tired, for he said the thick carpets at the restaurant wore his feet away, and I felt very shy about living in a house with a landlady. Finally we obtained a flat for 22s. 6d. per week at St Johns, near Lewisham, and purchased a walnut bedroom suite, with a his and hers wardrobe—my wardrobe was immense with huge bevelled glass doors—an oak dining-room suite, two leather arm-chairs, lino, one large rug for the sitting-room, a coffee table, a kitchen table and chairs, and two rugs for the bedroom. Our beautiful home cost £56.

  Amy came with me to Ilford to choose my wedding suit. I could find nothing I liked and finally settled for a very expensive frock in heavy turquoise marocain. I wasn’t really enamoured with it but it was so well cut it made my figure look very attractive. Passing the hat shop I saw in the window a beautiful Java straw picture hat with a turquoise ribbon band and binding, and this, with the dress, made a wedding outfit.

  On the Saturday morning my father appeared all innocent and got ready for cricket saying he didn’t know I wanted him to give me away. This upset me and he said he would give me away, but it would be the last time. Mother said he didn’t want to give any of his daughters away as it upset him too much. I knew it was because he preferred his cricket matches, but I didn’t want any further arguments.

  As we set off for the church, everyone else having gone, my father began calculating at what time he would arrive at his cricket match if the clergyman hurried it up, and in this mood we arrived at the church to find the vicar had also gone into Kent to a cricket match. My father brightened visibly at the verger’s information and was about to make off with a clear conscience when the new curate appeared. I felt like making off somewhere myself and would have done if it hadn’t taken so long to arrange my hat. I wanted to get a bit of wear from it in public. The curate restrained my father, apologising for the vicar’s absence, and said I had been omitted from the book in error; he had never yet conducted a marriage service but he would do his best for the young people.

  We walked down the aisle following the curate, now garbed in his wedding regalia. I felt something strange flapping against my leg and looking over my shoulder saw two inches of my new blue petticoat hanging down. I had a large safety-pin in my knickers, so they were safe; perhaps people would look at my hat. We reached my bridegroom and his brother. They had come out of the front pew and were standing with their backs to us as we approached. I thought Charles seemed to be swaying a bit and then I saw his face. He was as white as a sheet and his brother was supporting him with his hand on his arm. I thought, my goodness, what with one thing and another and now this, I’m the one who is supposed to be white and trembling, not him, and through my smile I felt I was clenching my teeth. I remember nothing of the service and then we were kneeling at the altar being given advice on our future life by this saint-like boy. It was the wrong advice as it turned out, we should have been given a hint on other hazards—though perhaps not in a holy place.

  As we came out of church I saw my father haring it up the road to the bus stop, and thought he shouldn’t be galloping like that on such a hot day. It really was sweltering. My husband had revived now that the worst was over, or he thought the worst was over, and catching sight of an old friend in the crowd he gave an enthusiastic wave, knocking my Ascot hat sideways. In a wave of pent-up emotion I gave him a mighty thump on his arm. He should have been leaning over me in a state of great love and joy and not waving to one of his old football mates, and to my utter horror and the amusement of the spectators, he gave me
a fiendish look of hate and thumped me in return. That is why we have no photographs of my wedding. The thumping one I destroyed and wished many times I had saved it for future evidence. ‘And you see, this, Judge…’

  We had organised sherry, spirits, light wine and refreshments at no. 13 but against all advice I refused to have beer. Beer to me was common and on this sweltering hot day all the men guests, and some of the ladies, wanted only a cool beer. It would have been ice cold in the cellar. Fortunately for them we left early and then I heard there was a rush round to Chas’s house for the crates his people had ordered unknown to me. What a cat I was really.

  Chas’s brother Robin saw us off at the main line station and I felt quite flat and miserable and wished I could have been going home with him. I suspect poor Chas felt the same. We had a late lunch on the train but I couldn’t eat mine because the perspiration was dripping down the waiter’s nose on to the food.

  We had booked at a hotel on the honeymoon Isle of Wight. I did not know it catered for religious conventions; a girl at the office had given me the address informing me it was a heavenly place in which to embark on the sanctity of married life. I discovered later she was a religious fanatic.

  We took a taxi from the station. I thought the driver looked surprised, and the next day we were too, for in the dusk we had not realised our hotel was bang slap up against the taxi rank. The driver did run us round one or two streets first though.

  We were greeted by the proprietress with the information that she was full to the ceiling with a religious convention and had been forced to put us in the annexe. It had only thin asbestos walls and she warned us, or thought we would like to know, that everything, just everything could be heard through these walls. So with that cheerful beginning we washed and came down to dinner, the object of many staring eyes.

  The dining-room was full of dark-suited whispering clergy-men. At the next table to us was a large red-faced bishop. The waitress called through a hatch, ‘One gent’s, one lady’s dinner, please.’ The lady’s dinner was minuscule, the gent’s small. I was absolutely starving and finished it as though it were an appetiser. My husband couldn’t touch his, the ferry had made him sick. I saw his dinner being removed sadly, for I was too shy to start on his after devouring my own. I whispered that if my meal was to be smaller, my bill should be smaller too. This worried my husband and he made a large shushing noise and the clergymen looked over and ogled us. Unfortunately because Chas left his dinner, for the rest of the stay his meals were minuscule too; they obviously kidded themselves they had been giving him too large a meal for a man.

  We went for a walk on the front and sat on a seat not knowing what to say to one another. I got up and put some pennies in a fun machine. This brought my husband to life for he thought it was a sheer waste of money, and I wondered if he thought I was going to squander the housekeeping when I received it.

  Finally we went back to the hotel to commence our nuptials. We had been very modern, or so we thought. We would get some capital behind us before commencing a family. He, being the man, it was left to him to arrange the non-arrival of a family. He was as green as I was and had visited a seedy shop in Villiers Street. All this I learned many moons later. The man behind the counter had a ‘Do you want to buy a dirty picture’ look about him, and when my husband enquired about sheaths, the man asked, ‘How many?’ This shocked my husband and he said he only required one, a good one. Then the man surprised Chas further by asking, ‘What size?’ Now, my darling had no idea that such things came in sizes, and he had to admit that he didn’t know the size. The man then scrutinised him closely and said, ‘You’ll want small’ and sold him what I thought was only to be compared with a Michelin X tyre.

  Chas went to the bathroom while I put on my beautiful wedding nightie and I was sitting up in bed when he returned with a look of pain on his weary face. Struggling with this tyre it had shot behind the bath and he had spent ages on his hands and knees looking for it. When finally it was on successfully he cried out in agony because he felt he was being strangled. I thought this was a strange word to choose, but he got into bed and I put my arms round him. He looked worn out and closed his eyes. Before he fell asleep he looked round the poky room and said sadly, ‘It is a pity, I was looking forward to these two weeks just to be able to get some good nights’ sleep.’ I lay awake and wondered how many bridegrooms had looked forward to their honeymoon for the sake of a good night’s rest. Then I became all maternal and thought about the long hours he worked. He really hadn’t the physique for it, and he had taken the wretched job so that we could save up and get married. I made up my mind to give him a happy fortnight. After all, we had years and years in front of us. Then the moths began to arrive, great furry flapping creatures, and it seemed almost dawn before an unsatisfied, but saintly, bride gained repose.

  Suddenly we were awakened by shouts and screaming and strange language. The bishop in the next room suffered from nightmares. According to the proprietress he had suffered mightily in the jungle as a missionary. The next day we were passing through the gardens when the bishop’s umbrella caught fire. He had gone to sleep using it as a parasol, still smoking his pipe. I would have let it burn as retaliation for my sleepless night but my husband, always a boy scout, put the flames out. Much giggling took place for the rest of the time among all those holy black-coated workers.

  We were getting a little more bored each day until we met the two young men. Charming creatures they were, very fond of one another, and we arranged to play tennis with them. My husband brightened up for he was bored with nothing to do, and we played some jolly matches with them. My husband would not let any ball escape him and straining to reach a high ball behind him he overbalanced, slid on his racquet, sprained his ankle and gashed his hand on the gravelled court. He possessed one of those faces which register pain so acutely it is frightening to see. The two young men made their adieus, they had to catch a coach, I must take my husband to the doctor immediately, they advised. I tied his brown shoes together and slung them round my neck. I took his jacket, racquet, balls under my arm, and placing his arm round my shoulder we began our tortured journey back to the hotel. His groans and our slow progress made us a spectacle for the onlookers and, becoming acutely embarrassed at his face, and annoyed at the circumstances in which I found myself, I said ‘What on earth did you want to try to reach such an impossible ball for?’ Sensing my feeling he became rather insulting, or so I thought, about my tennis capabilities, and I said ‘Well, surely there’s no need to make the fuss you are making?’ He stopped dead in the street and began to shout about my callousness and lack of feeling and as we had an audience I apologised. I didn’t mean my apology but it was the only way to get him to resume our uneven pace, for he was tall, I was short and loaded. We were all in white and I felt we looked like two ghostly survivors from a safari. I only needed a jar of tiddlers to match his slung shoes round my neck.

  When I helped him into the dining-room that evening, he winced and groaned until he found a comfortable place for his sprained foot. His hand was bandaged and the ogling clergymen must have thought it was Passion Sunday. They were probably pleased they were married to the Virgin Mary. ‘Such a pity to meet with an accident on one’s honeymoon,’ one said to me. I would liked to have said, ‘Yes, a trifle restricting,’ but I knew my place.

  I went to see my dear mother on my return. She said I didn’t appear to have enjoyed my honeymoon. I said, ‘Well, not really,’ and she said, confidentially, ‘I could have told you it was overrated.’ Her first and last mention of such a subject to me.

  On that visit I accompanied her to the Mothers’ Union. True I wasn’t a mother, but I was her married daughter. The woman in charge was a large county type out of the top drawer, very interested and helpful to the mothers of the poor. She had one of those high-faluting voices which the music hall comics like to imitate. Each member was given a copy of the Union, and each time this good lady brought out the required number of copi
es she was a few short. She fetched more copies and before she commenced her lecture she said, ‘Well, have you all had it?’ and I whispered to Mother as I looked at the poor toothless grannies and tired worn out mums, ‘Not recently,’ and the little granny next to me heard and it was difficult to stop her cackling. Mother looked very disapproving but there was a twinkle in her eye. I was a married woman now. To mention it as ‘it’ was not too wicked provided I still whispered.

  The granny’s giggling seemed to excite and bring to life the mothers sitting near us and they edged closer so as to be included in the fun. My mother, because she was my mother, knew that all I needed, with my sense of the ridiculous, was a foil or stooge to turn the meeting into Bedlam, and because she was fearful our laughter would get out of hand during the lady visitor’s talk, she poured calm upon the chaos by asking if anyone knew what the talk would be about that afternoon. ‘The beauty of Woochechersheer,’ said one mother.

  The very way she pronounced Worcestershire brought instantly and vividly to my mind the frightened little blond boy of my childhood gazing at the broken bottle with the brown river of sauce oozing from it, and the same boy running in terror after the coal cart carrying the injured child. In a blinding flash of memory I knew—it was uncanny how I was so sure—that I had married that boy. It seemed those pictures had been in my mind all my life yet I had never realised before it was Chas. Although it was difficult to equate him with the heroes in Elinor Glyn’s popular novels, I was sure our meeting and marriage had been pre-destined and I was anxious to rush home and tell him the exciting news. Perhaps we would have a rich life together. I would go to work the very next day and save up all my money so that he could leave the slavery of his job.